Not just friends
by Moneypenny
Summary: Wilson has amnesia. HW mm established relationship. Originally posted to livejournal sick!wilson. I decided to add to this story. Nine chapts now complete.
1. Chapter 1

"Amnesia?"

It's her voice; she recognises that. But her mind can't seem to process what its hearing.

"Dr Cuddy? Are you alright?"

Blinking, she drags herself back to the present. The leather couch she's sitting on squeaks as she shifts nervously. Beside her House sits like a stone statue, as he has since they entered the office. Biting back a sigh, she focuses on the man sitting across from them - Dr Matthews, the doctor dealing with Wilson's case.

"How bad is..." The words fail her. She gestures vaguely instead.

He returns her gesture with a shrug. "Difficult to tell. He's still very disorientated. It's possible some of that will disappear once he's recovered from the initial effects of the accident. Best guess right now? He's missing five years."

Five years. Her mind automatically scrabbles to work that out. She can barely remember where she was five years ago so has no chance of figuring out the same for Wilson. Her mind's whirling and it takes her a second to realise that House is up and moving, the thud of his cane against the floorboards mapping his journey towards the door.

"House.." Twisting around in her seat she catches a glimpse of his face, grey from lack of sleep. "Wait. I'll come with yo-" As the door slams shut she slumps down into the couch, closing her eyes against the tears that are suddenly threatening to fall.

* * *

"How are you feeling?"

She's already mentally kicking herself as the words come out of her mouth. Wilson's pale face is marred with bruises, an angry red cluster above his left brow marking where his head made contact with the sidewalk. He musters up a weak smile in reply to her question but the stiff way he's holding his body gives away his true condition. Depositing the magazines she's borrowed from the Oncology lounge beside his bed, she pulls up a chair.

During the walk from her office to Wilson's room she's been thinking about what she's going to say. Dr Matthews doesn't think it's a good idea to bombard Wilson with too much information. She understands why but it's hard - ever since he regained consciousness he's looked bewildered. Extremely bewildered, she amends, as he frowns at her.

"What?" she asks, forcing a smile on her face.

"Nothing." His head dips down and he's blushing. It's the most animated she's seen him since the accident and she takes advantage, leaning over to nudge him gently. "You just look...older," he explains finally, his eyes fixed firmly on his blankets. "It's...wrong."

His voice trips over the last word and she swallows hard against the lump in her throat. Leaning over to hug him is what she wants to do but sensing its too much she goes for light-hearted instead. "Hopefully I've improved with age," she offers, forcing her smile to reappear. He nods to himself as if deep in thought.

With a nervous cough she shatters the uncomfortable silence that is threatening to smother them. "Um, House sends his apologies," she starts, resorting to the script she's been practicing.

With a shake of his head, Wilson stops her. "It's okay."

'No it's not', she feels like yelling. You don't understand. But Dr Matthews was adamant about this part. And House has been like a ghost, haunting the hospital corridors, disappearing into thin air every time she's tried to track him down.

"Lisa?"

He's frowning again. Following his gaze she realises her hands are shaking. Angry with herself she clenches them shut. Breathe, she reminds herself. And stick to the script. "Your parents are flying in this afternoon."

"And Julie?"

She's been expecting the question, dreading it. But still it blindsides her.

"I screwed up again, didn't I."

Wilson's voice is calm, matter-of-fact. It's a statement not a question. She's opens her mouth to protest, to explain what actually happened, but he's curling into himself, collapsing like a puppet that's had its strings cut. This time she doesn't think twice when her heart tells her to envelop him in a hug.

* * *

The rhythmic 'thud, thud, thud' noise grows louder as she approaches House's office. Through the glass partition she can see Chase hunched over the table. He glances up then looks away, guilt written across his face. She feels a moment of triumph; Chase was the one who called her, he's the reason she's about to enter the lion's den. On the other hand she can't blame him; she'd love to be hiding out too.

Not bothering to knock she sweeps open the door to House's office, slamming it behind her for extra effect. It's a wasted effort. Slouched down in his chair, House doesn't miss a beat as he carries on throwing the ball against the wall.

"You're scaring the staff." It's a lame statement and she knows it; he scares staff everyday. What she really wants to do is drag him down to Wilson's room but she knows how lethal he is with his cane. Instead she sits down opposite him.

"He's asking for you."

"No he's not."

His words are said with utter conviction and she forces herself not to flinch. He's right, Wilson would never ask for him. That's not what they do.

"He knows about Julie." For a split second the ball stills then starts again. "He'd probably appreciate some company right now."

"So, go talk to him."

If it wasn't for the dark shadows under his eyes, the obvious lines of exhaustion on his face she'd walk out now, she thinks. Instead she leans forward, taking a moment to pick her words carefully. "House, you have to tell him. How is he supposed to get-"

With a snort of disgust he throws the ball harder. "He doesn't need me. He loves Julie."

He spits the word 'love' out, like it's a bad taste and she recoils, shaking her head. "He doesn't love her. He doesn't know it yet but…" She trails off as he gets to his feet and starts pacing.

"Up here he loves her," he says, angrily tapping the side of his head. "Five years ago he was madly in love with her." As she opens her mouth to argue he comes to a halt, leaning down to hold her gaze. "I remember," he tells her, his voice low, "even if he can't."

* * *

"Can I help you with that, Doctor Cuddy?"

With an exasperated sigh she steps back from the wheelchair she's been struggling to manoeuvre. As the nurse steps in, expertly wheeling it into Wilson's room, she takes a moment to compose herself. A knot of dread has settled in her stomach, making her feel nauseous. She's forcing herself to take deep breaths when the nurse reappears, with Wilson safely stowed in the chair.

The bruises on his face are starting to turn yellow, making him look even paler and drawn. Since the day she told him about Julie he's been quieter too. His doctors say it's to be expected. He just needs time. It's a phrase she's getting sick of hearing.

Suddenly she realises Wilson and the nurse are watching her. "We good to go then?" she asks, taking over control of the wheelchair when Wilson nods. Silently they head down the corridor.

The silence grows deeper as she drives them away from the hospital. When Dr Matthews had first announced that they were ready to discharge Wilson she'd seen a look of panic flash across the younger man's face. With Julie gone he had nowhere to go – until Dr Matthews announced that House had volunteered to look after him.

"This isn't the way to House's apartment."

She glances right and he's staring at her, his eyes wide with confusion. Not for the first time she wishes she could turn the clock back two weeks and pretend this never happened. "He's got a new apartment," she explains.

"Oh."

She waits for more, praying for some glimmer of memory. From the corner of her eye she can see him looking out of the window, his eyebrows drawn together in a frown. Suddenly the knot of tension is back. Her hand drifts towards her cell phone: she should call House now, stop the whole thing before something goes irretrievably wrong.

"Why'd he do that?"

The frown's deepened, his face is almost scrunched up. "Needed more space," she replies, congratulating herself on keeping such a calm voice.

She's not feeling calm fifteen minutes later as they wait for House to answer his door. Beside her Wilson is breathing heavily, reminding her that this is his first full day out of a hospital bed. Annoyed with herself, she offers him an arm. He leans in and she takes his weight. He looks tired, she realises. 'Too much, too soon', she thinks but the door is already opening.

House doesn't look any better. Leaning heavily on his cane, his hair is mussed up. As he backs up to let her steer Wilson into the apartment she notices his limp is more pronounced than usual.

She's been to this apartment before, for dinner. But as she leads Wilson to the couch, hovering as he lowers himself down, she notices things are different. It's not the layout – that's the same. It's the details, she realises, the small things. There are less DVDs and books on the shelves.

Wilson's things are missing.

Biting back the first scathing comment that comes to mind, she twists round towards House. Dr Matthews had told them to not bombard Wilson with information but she wants him back and House's idiotic reluctance to risk showing his feelings makes her want to scream. The words die on her lips though as she catches sight of House. Standing in one corner, his back against the wall, his gaze is on the couch where Wilson is sitting, oblivious to his scrutiny. He looks terrified.

It hits her then, how much is riding on this. For a second she panics. Then she glances down at Wilson. Despite his tiredness, he's looking around the room and the frown is back on his face. She's about to offer to make coffee, anything to break the silence, when Wilson gets up and begins to slowly walk around the room.

She follows him with her eyes, trying to understand what he's seeing. House may have removed all the obvious signs of Wilson, she realises, but there are still traces of him in the room. She remembers that he'd chosen some of the furnishings. And the place is organised, despite House's best efforts to make it look otherwise.

"You live here?"

For a moment she thinks the question is addressed to her. Wilson's staring at House though. She watches as the older man swallows hard before nodding. Wilson pauses for a second then retraces his steps, reaching out to gently run his fingers along the bookshelves as he passes.

"I live here too?"

Her heart misses a beat. Wilson is standing by the couch and he's staring at it intently. It's his hands that catch her attention though: he's stroking the fabric on the couch, clenching and unclenching his fingers. She makes a move towards him but stops as House moves too. It's only two steps, enough so that he can wave in the direction of the bedrooms with his cane.

"Your room's through there."

The deep frown is back but Wilson goes. She hesitates, torn over which man to worry over the most. Now that Wilson is out of sight House is leaning on his cane heavily, his shoulders curled. Sympathy wouldn't be appreciated though so she forces herself to wait.

She doesn't have to wait long. Wilson soon reappears and her heart sinks. Confusion is written all over his face.

"Are you alright?" she asks but he ignores her, heading straight towards House.

"This is my apartment too, right?"

The tone is curt and she holds her breath. House just nods.

"And I sleep in that room there?"

No. That's not right but she's promised House he can do the talking. Wilson paces away, his hands planted on his hips. She recognises the body language: alarm bells start ringing in her head. There's going to be argument and that's the last thing they need right now. She looks to House for help but he's frozen to the spot, his attention focused on Wilson. Exasperated she moves but not before Wilson's moved too, spinning round to confront House. He's shaking, his eyes flashing with anger.

"You're lying to me."

"Wilson.."

"No." He jabs a finger in her direction. "He's lying to me." He blinks, as if suddenly coming to a conclusion. "You both are. I would never have agreed to live here with him, not as…"

"Not as what?"

House's voice is so low that she has to strain to hear it. But it cuts through Wilson's anger like a sharp knife. Crossing his arms defensively across his chest he turns away. She holds her breath as House follows him, stopping a couple of paces behind. There's still fear in his blue eyes but there's determination too.

"Not as what?"

Wilson closes his eyes and his shoulders slump. 'Too much, too soon', she thinks again, taking a step forward. Wilson recovers though, straightening his shoulders and turns. "As friends," he whispers tiredly. "I would never have agreed to live here with you, just as friends."

Wilson pulls away and she realises he's trembling, exhaustion finally overtaking him. She steps forward again, any agreement she has with House forgotten. But he's faster than her. Leaning forward, he hooks Wilson's elbow and pulls him close. Nervousness flashes across Wilson's face, changing to surprise as House leans in to whisper in his ear.

"We're not just friends."

For a split second, Wilson looks confused again. But then he leans in further and she lets out a low sigh of relief.

"I think I need to sit down."

House chuckles; it's a low rumbling sound that lifts a weight off her shoulders. She watches for a moment as House slips his arm around Wilson and leads him towards the couch, the two of them shuffling awkwardly. The doctor in her wants to help but House catches her eye. The emotion in his eyes takes her breath away and she just nods, quietly letting herself out of the apartment.

No, she thinks, a smile breaking out as she walks back to her car. They're not just friends.

Finish


	2. Chapter 2

Every night he dreams of Julie.

She's warm under his touch, so real that he smiles as the scent of vanilla body lotion tickles his nostrils. She's gorgeous. Irresistible. Every time he wraps his arms around her and pulls her close his heart misses a beat.

He can't get enough of it; that sudden flip flop of his stomach, the absolutely certainty that he loves this woman.

It's an addiction; he knows that. But it's one that he doesn't want to kick.

Every morning he wakes up disorientated, his brain floundering as it struggles to understand.

The bedroom he's in is furnished in dark colors – not the light floral prints in his dreams. Through the door he can hear movement. There's the wafting scent of freshly brewed coffee, the steady thud, thud, thud of a cane against wooden floorboards.

The truth comes flooding back and he curls up in defense against it.

He's not married to Julie any longer. Somehow he screwed up again.

And another day of living in limbo is about to begin.

* * *

He takes his time getting ready in the mornings. The part of his brain that is working logically tells him that he doesn't smell of vanilla body lotion but he scrubs at his body anyway. Despite the fact he's not working today, he dries his hair carefully.

Once he's sure he looks perfect he heads for the kitchen.

House is looking scruffy – a perfect counterbalance to the smart casual clothes he's chosen. They drink coffee and eat pancakes. House mocks his attempts at the morning crossword. He hits back by pretending to hate the coffee.

This is something he can remember. The banter: the thrill of sparring and trying to keep up. But it's not right. His mind feels disjointed.

It is disjointed.

Suddenly he realizes House has stopped talking. Blinking, he forces himself to concentrate. House is staring back at him, a thoughtful look on his face. He dare not look too closely: he knows he'll see sadness in the expressive blue eyes.

They do this a lot, circling like two reluctant prize fighters, too scared to approach each other because they know what'll come next. The tension just keeps on building; there's no safe place for it to go. Every word he speaks is chosen carefully although he doesn't actually know what to measure his behavior against; the House he remembers from five years ago wasn't this…transparent.

He runs that thought around in his mind, like he does every day. Everywhere he looks there's evidence of his _new _life; the one he's always been too scared to try for. In his mind, friendship has always been better than nothing. Somehow in the past he's overcome his fear. But right now the scent of vanilla still lingers in his mind and House is surreptitiously studying him again, looking for a sign.

Just tell me, he feels like yelling. Just tell me what I did last time, but he knows that won't be enough. He wishes he could reach out and touch and put this right. Part of him wants to, is screaming at him to do just that. The other part is cowering in a corner, terrified of making the wrong move.

"I going to make some decent coffee," he offers, getting up so that House can stop looking and occupy himself with correcting all his crossword answers instead.

* * *

"Dr Cuddy? Your five o'clock meeting just cancelled."

She murmurs her thanks to her assistant and leans back in her chair, allowing herself a small sigh. It's been a hectic day – despite the fact that House hasn't been within a hundred feet of the hospital.

Not for the first time that day she wonders if she should call him. Wilson's four week appointment with his doctor had been today. House had been typically dismissively when she'd asked him about it. But over the years she's become very good at reading his body language.

She imagines House's curt response and dismisses the idea.

Hovering won't be appreciated.

* * *

It's not until she's back at home that evening, with the bath running and a bottle of wine freshly opened that House – and Wilson – enter her thoughts again.

It's the evenings she hates the most. It hits her then – the loneliness. And she wonders wistfully what it would be like to share her life with someone else.

She remembers the change in House's attitude when he'd first started his relationship with Wilson; gradual hints that the real Gregory House was still alive and kicking inside that hostile exterior. She remembers the panicked aftermath of Wilson's accident; the relief in the blue eyes when she'd taken Wilson home.

She's replays that moment in her mind sometimes. It makes her smile. She'd been so terrified it would backfire. That Wilson would freeze, just wouldn't connect…

He had though, at some level. She looks at the phone again, itching to pick it up. It's the doctor in her that's dying to know the prognosis she tells herself, and then shakes her head. She's last seen Wilson two days ago; he'd looked pristine. He'd looked happy. Until she'd looked into his eyes.

Five years loss of memory is something that she can't begin to comprehend. But it's reality for Wilson. Slithers of his memory are returning: 'flutters' he'd called them, waving vaguely in front of his face. But his frustration was obvious.

They're not the right memories. They're not the ones he wants.

It's that thought that's still running through her mind when there's a knock at the door. Still deep in thought, she pulls back a drape to peer outside. It's dark and she's tired so it takes her a few seconds to register that it's Wilson standing outside on her porch.

Her stomach twists as he shifts and the porch light illuminates his face. "Damn."

* * *

Tugging on her bathrobe, she opens the door. "Where's House?" are the first words that slip out of her mouth.

Apparently oblivious to her tactlessness, Wilson gestures back at a pair of rear car lights that are heading into the darkness. "Took a cab."

His voice hitches on the last word, kicking her brain into gear. She guides him indoors, gently nudging him towards the couch when he stops in the middle of the room. He sits, his hands curled in his lap.

"You're shaking."

He looks down, cupping his hands one over the other before drawing them closer. "I'm fine. It's just…" His chin dips and he brings up one hand to scrub his face.

Sitting down beside him, she covers his nearest hand with hers. It's cold and she shivers. His head is down, hiding his expression. But she's rubbing his hand gently and he hasn't told her to stop. "Do you want to tell me what happened?"

He takes a deep, heaving breath. When he looks up his eyes aren't red-rimmed, as she expected. They're dark with anger instead. "We had an argument."

You're always having arguments, is her first thought. Love hadn't turned either man into a hopeless romantic. But her memories are different to Wilson's. "What about?"

"I kissed him." He jerks his hands skywards, his lips pursed into a thin, straight line. He's not angry with House she suddenly realizes: he's furious with himself.

"Um…" she starts, feeling like she's tiptoeing on thin ice, "isn't kissing a good thing?"

With a shrug, Wilson exhales slowly. "I thought so."

"But?"

"Apparently House disagrees."

The words are dry, brutal and very reminiscent of House. Years of sparring with the older man have taught her to jab back. But Wilson's leaning back into the couch, angrily scraping his fingers through his hair. "I thought that's what he wanted."

So did I, she thinks. He falls silent, his head slumping back as his eyes close. This is between House and Wilson she reminds herself, trying to ignore her overwhelming need to reach out. Maybe, though, if she were to call House…

The high-pitched ring of her cell phone jolts her out of her thoughts. Grabbing it out of her briefcase she checks the caller ID and flashes Wilson an apologetic smile as she heads for the kitchen. He blinks in acknowledgment before his eyes slide shut again.

Closing the kitchen door she picks up the call. "What the hell did you say to him?"

There's a tired, shuddering sigh at the other end. "He's there then."

"Of course he's -" Her brain catches up; really listens to House's voice. "Yes, he's here," she starts again, taking the sting out of her tone. "Are you coming over? You two need to talk to –"

"No."

"House." It's gone quiet at the other end of the line and she repeats his name. "He said he kissed you." No interfering, she's reminds herself, but her frustration has already got the better of her. "I thought that's what you wanted."

"No wonder you've resorted to internet dating."

The words sting. She jabs. "Okay, Dr Phil. Explain it to me."

There's another long sigh. She can hear a tapping noise in the background; he's pacing. "He didn't mean it."

"What?"

"I know the difference. I'm not some cheap date he's picked up in a bar."

Waving her free hand in frustration she begins pacing as well. House can be so incredibly useless at communicating. "You're upset about the quality of the kissing? What, do you have a scoring system or something?"

"You'll need at least an 8.5 to get into the top ten."

"House." She grits her teeth and takes another deep breath. He's upset which means he's deflecting. "Again. Explain it to me."

There's silence. When he speaks his voice is softer. "They don't think he'll regain all his memories."

The appointment with Wilson's doctor. She clutches the phone closer, checking the door is still closed. "But Wilson said…the flutters…"

House snorts at her choice of words; she can imagine the way his eyes are rolling. "He's regaining some memories. But it's random. And it's not happening as fast as they'd like."

She closes her eyes against the defeat in his voice. "So, what? This is it?"

"Therapy." The word is spat out. "They'll set him up with some 'coping mechanisms'."

That still won't solve the problem she thinks, instantly understanding what he's reluctant to say. Resting her head against the cool surface of one of the cabinets, she begins to rock back and forth. "So what happened?"

There's another snort but it's not a humorous one. "I didn't take the news very well. I may have been…upset."

Upset. She doubts that word even begin to covers it. "He was worried about you."

"Yeah. And Wilson being Wilson…"

"…tried to fix it." She loves both of these men in a weird, twisted way but they drive her to distraction. "You're idiots, both of you," she breathes softly into the phone.

"Can he stay with you for a few days?"

She stands up straight. "That might not be a good idea –"

"It is."

His voice is low, determined. "Okay." But she's entitled to know why. There's silence as he digests her question; it seems to drag on forever.

"There's…people he needs to talk to." His voice is so low she's straining to hear him. "And he's not going to do it while he's living here."

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

"I asked for Delaney's restaurant."

The cab driver looks at him like he's grown two heads. It's a reaction he's getting used to. "Old man Delaney died a few years back. His son's taken over now. Michael." The cab driver gestures out of the window towards the building on the other side of the street.

Michael's Bistro.

He gets out and pays the fare. Looking again at the building he can see the changes that have been made. He wonders if he's ever going to stop being surprised.

Probably not, he acknowledges with a sigh. Not if the doctors are right.

He's ten minutes early. Sitting in the restaurant on his doesn't appeal so he starts walking. In fact the whole situation doesn't appeal but it's too late now.

It is he realizes, the first time he's been out on his own since the accident. It's weird not having a chaperone. His cell phone feels heavy in his jacket pocket and he wonders if he should call House, tell him where he is.

Not a good idea. He'd probably want in on the meeting. That really wouldn't go down too well.

Assuming that House would take his call of course. It's been a week since the argument; seven days since they've spoken face to face. House has sent him emails full of the latest hospital gossip and he's accepted them as the apology he's sure they're meant to be. But he's not ready for a big conversation. And he's pretty sure House isn't either - assuming he ever will be.

Most of that night is still a blur to him – except the kiss. Tentative and clumsy, his stomach had plummeted as he'd realized the huge mistake he'd made. Shouting had followed – scathing words, most of which he's already forgotten. But House – as usual – had been right about one thing: It is only a few memories he's lost; not his ability to think. He needs to start making decisions for himself again and stop focusing on what he doesn't have.

Easy for him to say, he thinks, his eyes drawn back to the restaurant. Or maybe it wasn't: House's expression of tired resignation flashes vividly in his mind.

After a few more minutes he bows to the inevitable and walks back. The cooking smells coming out of the restaurant are probably mouth-watering but they make his stomach roil and he takes a deep breath.

It doesn't really help. As the waiter shows him to a table he keeps his head down, hoping he's just imagining the taste of bile in his mouth. So when he looks up and she's sitting there – really sitting there – it's like being hit by a truck.

"Hello, James."

Suddenly his mouth feels like it's full of cotton wool. "Julie."

Somehow he finds his chair, accepts a menu. Reading it is out of the question. He's dying to touch her. He grips tightly onto his menu instead.

She's studying him closely, her head tilted to one side, her lips turned up in a soft smile. His heart is thumping like a piston, making it difficult to breathe. She's still gorgeous. Just like in his dreams.

"Are you okay?"

All day he's been reminding himself that he needs to be objective. He thought it had worked.

Apparently not.

"I'm…I'm fine." He takes a deep breath, then another, forcing himself to focus. "You're looking good." Cringing, he tries again. "Your hair, it's different."

Her smile falters, turning into a look of confusion similar to the cab driver's. "You like it?"

Shoulder length and wavy is how he remembers her hair. It's soft in his dreams, caressing his chest when she leans down for a kiss. This new style is short, a few shades darker. It accentuates her bone structure, makes her look more confident. "It suits you."

"Thanks."

An awkward silence falls between them. Just like a first date he thinks, swallowing against the hysterical laughter that's threatening to explode. This was such a bad idea. Maybe he should have brought House along. At least he would have kept the conversation going.

"House said you might call."

"Really?" Eyebrows raised in disbelief, he gives her his full attention. "You spoke to him? You hate each other."

"I still don't like him," she shrugs. "But he's a lot easier to get on with now we're not in competition."

His reply is automatic, inbuilt. "It's not like that – "

"James." She reaches over to still him with her hand. It looks delicate curled around his. "You don't have to pretend any more."

The palm of her hand had always been one of her more ticklish spots. At formal functions he'd stroke the ball of his thumb across it and feel her shiver. She'd look up at him, eyes glittering with laughter, and he'd know the sex was going to be good that night.

"James?" He blinks. "You're shivering."

Her hand's moved, he realizes, to a safer distance across the table. "Sorry." He rubs his hands across his face and reminds himself to breathe. "It's been a… weird couple of weeks."

She smiles sympathetically at him. That's another reaction, he thinks, that's getting old. "Everyone's been worried about you."

He remembers the way House had hounded his doctor at his last appointment and nods. The reappearance of the waiter saves him from saying anything else. Eating doesn't appeal. But it does put off the conversation that he knows they're going to have so he orders anyway.

Eventually, though, it's just the two of them again.

"So, you called me. What did you want to talk about?"

It's another surprise to add to his rapidly growing list and he looks up. The old Julie was never so direct. "I don't know where to start…"

"From the beginning?" She leans forward, her voice soft and encouraging and for a second she's the Julie he used to sit and talk to after a hard day at work.

Rubbing his neck, he tries to get his thoughts in order. What did he want to talk about? He could tell her about the accident, or the fact that the last five years are a patchy mess of memories that make no sense. Or the total humiliation he'd felt when Cuddy had gently told him that he'd been talking in his sleep?

No. There's really only one thing he needs to talk about. "Tell me what happened." He flicks his hand between them. "You and me."

Shaking her head, she looks away. "That's over and done with."

His fingers curl in frustration. "Well if I could remember –" She looks back and he falters at the pain in her eyes: pain he caused her. His stomach twists as she begins to talk.

It only takes her half an hour to recall four years of marriage. Compact and concise. It's a litany of nights he'd stayed late at the hospital, important dinners and family occasions missed because of House. Deep down he'd already known what she was going to say. But he's always had a habit of picking at old wounds, no matter how much they bleed.

"How long-" He swallows, then tries again. "How long after… House…" Words fail him. He points at himself instead.

"How long was it before you and House moved in together?" Julie suggests tentatively, surprise obvious in her voice. "He hasn't told you?"

Ducking his head down, he shakes it once. "I haven't asked him." House would have a field day dissecting that.

"James –"

"How long?"

With a shaky sigh she gives in. "Three months."

He's not sure what he'd been expecting. But three months sends his mind reeling. Julie walking out on him would have been devastating – or at least that's what it felt like, when Cuddy had first broken the news to him at the hospital. How had he _recovered_ in just twelve weeks?

"I guess you'd been thinking about it for a long time."

The tired resignation in her voice makes his breathing hitch. At some point during their conversation dinner had arrived. Now he looks down at the plate of cold, congealing pasta in front of him and struggles not to throw up.

"I did love you." It sounds clichéd. But right at that second he believes it's true.

"I know." She thoughtfully studies him for a moment, her head tilted to one side. "But you've always loved House more."

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

"Dr Cuddy? It's Dr House. He's just called down to say he can't do his clinic hours today."

Nurse Prendergast is scowling at her, a set of patient files hugged close to her chest, all classic symptoms of post-House-contact-syndrome.

Smiling sympathetically, she makes all the right noises about talking to House. It's not until the office door has closed behind the other woman that she throws her pen. Double bouncing off the table and couch, it lands on the rug. Slowly a dark blue stain crawls across the cream-colored pile.

Damn.

The trip to his office has become a daily pilgrimage. Calling would be quicker. But the last time she checked he had 25 missed calls sitting on his machine.

The diagnostics conference room is empty, as is the white board. House barely acknowledges her as she strides up to his desk. Hunched over his keyboard, he's staring intently at something on the screen.

"Clinic hours. Ring any bells?"

"Got a patient." He waves vaguely in the direction of the conference room.

"And yet you're still here."

Slowly he swings round. "Isn't that what you made me hire them for?" Another wave at the empty room next door.

"You don't have a patient."

"Do too."

"This isn't a kindergarten. And I don't have time to play."

"Fine. Go away."

She's not finished; there's several ways she could blackmail him into doing the clinic hours. But there's no spark behind his banter; without that it's no fun for her at all.

Leaning on the desk she lets out a long deep breathe to calm her. Wilson's been away for 10 days now, visiting family and friends. Prying House out of his office is getting harder; even promises of lunch are accepted grudgingly. The only times he's voluntarily spoken to her are when he's needed a new script for Vicodin.

For a man who prides himself on spotting other people's tells, it's amazing how transparent he is about missing Wilson.

Pushing herself upright, she catches a glimpse of the image on his screen. Interested, she slowly walks round and peers over his shoulder. It's a young boy surrounded by adults and they're all wearing beaming smiles. The picture looks recent but the young boy's face is familiar. "That looks like Wilson but…"

Impatiently he rolls his eyes at her then stabs at the bushy eyebrows on the screen with his pen. "Family curse. It's his nephew's bar mitzvah." A few clicks of the mouse later the picture has disappeared to be replaced by the home page of an online photo album.

Wilson's online photo album.

Eyebrows raised, she catches his eye. "Does he know you're looking at those?"

"Just checking he hasn't got his dates confused." He points his forefinger at his head and twirls it. "Memory problem."

"House!" She turns her attention back to the screen. "I guess he's going to add these to his scrap book?" House nods then carries on clicking through a selection of family shots.

The scrap book had been the idea of Wilson's therapist. "It's supposed to be a tactile and visual method to help me 'engage' with the last five years," Wilson had explained, quoting his therapist in a dry and unenthusiastic tone. But Wilson's always been very good with paperwork. The bedside table in her spare room has a neat stack of colored sticky paper pads on it; photographs and written memories will be catalogued under different colors, he'd explained.

"I'm picking him up from the airport on Tuesday." Moving a few files, she perches on the edge of his desk. "You can come with me, if you want."

He's got his back to her but the tense set of his shoulders give away his reply. "No thanks. Busy."

"You can wait in the –"

"Nope."

"He'd be pleas –" His glare stops her dead.

She knows the sensible thing to do right now is to walk out and leave. Instead she lightly touches his shoulder before retreating to the visitors' chair on the other side of his desk.

Eventually he shuts down the image on the screen and leans back in his chair. Closing his eyes, he carefully kneads his damaged thigh. "Get Cameron to do my clinic hours. Just tell her she's covering for Wilson. She's always a sucker for a hard-luck case."

Which is true, she acknowledges. And it would make her life so much easier. She's not sure it's fair to inflict House on the clinic patients right now. Mentally she chides herself for conceding to him but another glance at his face convinces her she's doing the right thing. He looks even more unshaven than usual. The dark rings under his eyes suggest he hasn't been sleeping much either.

"You should call him." Just call him and make this whole thing stop. "Talk to him. Ask him to come ba-"

House's hand stills but his eyes don't open. "He knows where to find me."

His tone is sharp, almost derogatory. It makes her flinch. You don't mean that, she wants to yell, looking at the evidence to the contrary that's staring her in the face. Deep breaths, she reminds herself angrily. He's expecting you to storm out and send Wilson back in to mediate…

Because Wilson understands House, or as much as House allows him to, her brain fills in. And that works both ways. In House's mind, he's made his position perfectly clear, at least to Wilson. He's waiting for Wilson to step up and make a decision. And he's prepared to walk away, if that's what the other man wants.

Comprehension doesn't make the situation any easier though and she stifles a sigh as she gets to her feet. The Wilson she'd waved goodbye to at the airport wouldn't be able to make that decision; he'd withdrawn even more after meeting Julie. House might think he's got control of the situation but Wilson's always been his Achilles heel.

At least now she understands now why Wilson hasn't called either.

Right now, distance is the only thing that's keeping them together.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

"I'm really sorry, Dr Cuddy. The guy wasn't acting funny...I don't ...what..."

Forcing a sympathetic smile on her face, she leads the stuttering security guard to the nurses' station. She's sure his resume had said he was 28. He looks more like 19 right now. "No one's blaming you, Harry," she insists, pushing him down into a chair. "Just explain it to me again, from the beginning."

He blushes as one of the nurses offers him a glass of water. "Dr Cameron was looking after this guy in Exam Room One," he explains, taking a gulp of his drink. "He'd been waiting a while. It's been real busy. He kept singing, was real fidgety. Nothing bad though." He looks up at her nervously, his fingers tapping the glass. "I kept checking. He seemed okay..."

She nods reassuringly. "It's alright. Keep going."

"Well then Dr Cameron came out and asked the nurse to page Dr House. He must have been busy, he didn't come down. This guy, he starts shouting, so I knocked on the door, asked Dr Cameron if she was alright. She said it was okay." Shrugging, he takes another sip of water. "Then Dr House turns up -"

"And a fight breaks out." She rubs at her forehead tiredly. Sometimes 24 hours in a day really isn't enough.

Harry frowns worriedly. "The other guy started it. Is Dr House going to be alright?"

I hope so, she thinks, then flashes him a reassuring smile instead. "He's got a very thick skull."

It takes the rest of the afternoon to deal with the aftermath; a blur of police reports and upset clinic patients. When she finally makes it to House's hospital room it's early evening. With the blinds half-closed the room is almost in darkness. The sound of soft snoring breaks through the silence. It makes her grin.

Her grin fades as she gets closer to the bed. House is lying on his back, his mouth slightly open. There's a bandage on his head where he hit the cupboard, his right leg is being supported with pillows to ease the bruising he's suffered from hitting the wall. Not long ago it had been Wilson in that position. This time the situation is nowhere near as serious but the similarity makes her catch her breath.

Wilson. The first thing she should have done was call Wilson. Except he's on a plane right now, she suddenly remembers, glancing at her watch. Correction – his plane's been on the ground for nearly two hours.

With a growing sense of panic she gently touches House's shoulder. "Don't worry, I'll go and get him." There's a slight hitch in his snoring but then he picks up the rhythm again. The sound reassures her; the pain meds they've given him are doing their job.

She takes the stairs, moving as far as her heels will allow her. Using the elevator will mean more questions from staff but she's still stopped several times before she makes it to her office. Annie, her assistant, welcomes her with obvious relief. "Dr Cuddy, I was just about to call you –"

With a sympathetic wave she keeps moving. "I'm sorry, Annie, but I need to go out –"

Annie blocks the door with her body, giving her no choice but to stop. "That's what I'm trying to tell you," the other woman whispers, looking nervously through to the office. "Dr Wilson's here. I told him there was an emergency and he said it was alright, that he'd wait."

"Oh."

"I'm sorry, I didn't know what to say to him –"

"No, you did the right thing." I don't know what to say to him either, is what she really wants to say. Summoning up a smile she waits for Annie to return to her desk before straightening her jacket and opening the door.

Her smile slips as she enters her office. He looks so much better, she thinks as he gets up from her couch, an apologetic smile on his face. Guilt floods through her; he actually looks relaxed.

"Annie said you had an emergency?" With his head tilted in polite enquiry and his hands planted on his hips, for a moment she has to remind herself that it wasn't that long ago that he'd been the one being treated in the ER. She'd used every trick in the book that day trying to keep House from being dragged up on a disciplinary charge.

"Bad day, huh?" he carries on sympathetically, oblivious to her thoughts. "I'll get out of your hair then. I just came to get your keys." Sucking on his bottom lip he suddenly looks nervous. "Um…assuming it's still okay for me stay…it is okay, isn't it?"

"Of course it is." Stop prevaricating, she tells herself sternly. Just ignore his hopeful expression and get on with it.

So she does. It's not serious, she tells him several times, reaching out to support him by the elbow. A few days of bed rest will get House back on his feet. Wilson still looks pale though as she escorts him to the elevator, his expression worried and distant as they travel up to the third floor.

When they get to House's room she lets Wilson go first, not sure what her role here will be in. A thin stream of light from the nurses' station picks out the hollow of his cheeks, accentuating the tense pinch of his lips. Reading through House's medical chart, he rubs agitatedly at the back of his neck.

"See, nothing too serious," she insists gently as he reads the chart for a third time.

Grimacing, he carefully replaces it. "Typical. If Cameron hadn't been there he'd have left it to security."

She shifts quietly into the room as he moves further up the bed. She feels likes she's intruding but can't leave either, not yet. Wilson's movements are hesitant as he reaches over the bars on the bed; her heart clenches in sympathy as he lets out a shaky breath.

"Idiot."

The reprimand is tinged with affection. House snores on, oblivious to the hand that's wrapped around his. Wilson watches him, his expression closed and if he's aware of her scrutiny he's hiding it well. Straightening her shoulders, she quietly backs out of the room. "I'll get you some coffee," she offers over her shoulder. Dipping his chin, he turns his attention back to House.

One of the nurses offers to get the coffee and she accepts gratefully. It's getting late, she realizes, looking around at the emptying corridors. There's a stack of work on her desk that needs attention but still she can't drag herself away. Feeling like a voyeur she leans against the glass window of House's hospital room.

They're still holding hands, although the gesture is one-sided. House would recoil in horror she thinks, if he'd actually been awake. No touching is one of his cardinal rules, although during their relationship Wilson has deviously developed a few rules of his own. The first time she'd noticed him brushing shoulders with House as they traversed the hospital hallways she'd thought it had been a misstep, a mistake. Wilson's eyes had been sparkling with laughter though, like a kid bubbling with excitement at a secret joke. There had been other incidents, split seconds when Wilson would invade the other man's personal space. But House would just glare, silent and snark-free.

But of course Wilson can't remember those moments – or at least she doesn't think so. Asking would be cruel.

The smell of fresh coffee drags her back to the present. She nods her thanks to the nurse then turns attention back to the other side of the glass. Wilson's leaning forward and the concern in his eyes is obvious. But he's smiling, his free hand mapping out his conversation.

House is awake.

House's eyes are still cloudy with confusion as she quietly reclaims her position beside Wilson. With a smile Wilson accepts his coffee right-handed; his left is still wrapped around House's fingers. Don't stare, she tells herself fiercely. It's the pain meds. He hasn't noticed. But Wilson knows exactly what she's thinking; she can see it in his eyes when she meets his gaze.

"How's he doing?" she asks, embarrassment making her take a sip of her coffee.

"_He's_ doing fine," a raspy voice complains from the bed.

Beside her she senses, rather than sees, Wilson rolling his eyes. "_He _thinks he's ready to go home."

"Which he's not," she shoots back, as House opens his mouth again only for it to turn into a huge yawn. "This proves my –" She falters as the yawn turns into a grimace. Instantly Wilson appears in her line of vision, leaning further over the bed.

"What do you need?"

"TiVo. My couch. You to stop fussing," House raps out, the last word turning into a hiss as he closes his eyes. "Not necessarily in that order."

Wilson's jaw clenches, the tips of his ears are red. "TiVo and the couch you can have back tomorrow," he confirms with a glance in her direction. "I'm not making any promises about the rest."

House attempts to glare but it's a pale imitation. Sweat beads his upper lip. "I'll get the nurse," she offers, doing just that.

It should be a simple task, a couple of feet there and back. But instantly staff gravitate towards her. It's half an hour later before she makes it back to House's hospital room and the first thing she notices is the heavy silence. Wilson looks relaxed - almost too calm, she thinks. House is tapping his right hand on the bars of the bed, like he's holding an invisible cane.

"Is everything alright?" she asks hesitantly, her gaze traveling to each of them in turn.

"I was explaining that he'll be having company for a few days." She's right; Wilson's voice is unnervingly calm.

"Nagging," House accuses groggily, his eyes already sliding closed again.

She watches him for a few minutes, waiting for the tell tale signs that he's fallen asleep. Beside her she can feel Wilson unwinding too, his shoulders sagging with relief. "Are you sure about this?" she whispers, pulling him away from the bed.

"I'm sure."

As she meets his gaze she blinks in surprise. She forgets sometimes that he can be as determined and stubborn as House; he's just sneakier about getting what he wants.

"Okay," she agrees, still doubtful. She's had no time to ask him how he's feeling, or how the last two weeks have gone. It's none of your business, she reminds herself sternly. She still leans over and gives his arm a brief hug before wishing him good night. There's no point now in asking if he needs her house keys.

For an hour she keeps herself busy but eventually she ends up back outside House's room. Wilson's settled in a visitor's chair, pulled up beside the bed. At some point someone's retrieved his briefcase from her office; brightly colored pieces of sticky paper are spread out on his lap along with his scrapbook. In the bed House is motionless; the pain meds have kicked in again.

As she's turning away Wilson catches her eye and smiles. It's brief but infectious.

He looks…peaceful, she suddenly realizes, smiling back.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

"Are you sure you're alright?"

Smiling at the note of concern in Cuddy's voice, he shifts the phone more comfortably into the crick of his neck. "You sound like my Mother."

Cuddy laughs softly in reply. "She's called?"

"Several times," he confirms. Of course, if he'd remembered to call her yesterday and explained his change in plans she might not have panicked when her calls to Cuddy's number hadn't been returned. Rubbing tiredly at his neck, he fails to stifle a yawn.

"You should get some sleep," Cuddy breaks in gently. "I can come by later –"

"No. It'll be okay. I'll get some sleep tonight."

"If you're sure." Cuddy sounds doubtful but to his relief she changes the subject. "How's he doing?"

Leaning back through the kitchen doorway, he checks on the figure lying on the couch. "Still asleep. Tough afternoon. The New Yankee Workshop marathon really took it out of him."

She chuckles again then stops. "Wouldn't he be more comfortable in bed?"

You try telling him that, he feels like saying. "He's holding me to the deal," he explains instead. "TiVo and the couch."

"Oh."

It's a sore subject, one he and House have been arguing about all afternoon. He'd convinced himself that it wasn't bothering him; the tone of Cuddy's voice tells him that it obviously is. You're tired, he reminds himself. And House has his reasons for being more grouchy and scathing than usual.

The problem is House instinctively knows which buttons to push.

Taking a deep breath he tries to fills his voice with confidence. "Just enjoy the peace and quiet. In a few days he'll be at work again."

The silence that follows seems to drag on forever. Gripping the phone tighter, he begins to pace. Yesterday, at the hospital, the decision had been easy. House needed him. Today they're back to circling each other nervously. And Cuddy's reading him like an open book.

"Thanks." Cuddy's voice is low, bathed in sarcasm and despite himself he smiles. His smile fades as she clears her throat nervously. He can guess what's coming next. "There's still a bed here if you want it. I'm sure Cameron or Chase –"

"No." House would never forgive him. "We'll be okay."

And they will be he reminds himself later, as he's clearing the kitchen. Stupidly though he'd hoped a few weeks away from each other would miraculously have improved things.

Very stupid, he decides, rubbing at his temple.

The sounds of drilling and electric saws are still blaring out of the TV, masking the sound of his footsteps as he leans over the back of the couch. House is out cold, stretched out with his right leg supported by a pile of cushions. His lips are turned down at the edges and the dark bags under his eyes contrast starkly with his pale skin.

He watches for a while longer before heading for his bedroom. Before the infarction House had been able to fall asleep anywhere; lithe as a cat he'd drape himself over any available space. It had driven his ex-wives nuts. They couldn't understand what was so fascinating about watching late-night TV with someone who was comatose.

Eventually he'd retreated to House's couch instead. 'At least then you won't have to wait up,' he'd explained to Bonnie and Julie.

The couch House has now – they have now – is much larger. House had described it as 'man-size' when he'd asked him about it, the heat in his blue eyes making his cheeks warm. He sighs at the memory. Those first few days back from the hospital had been so much easier. He'd still been in shock, working on instinct alone. His brain hadn't been trying to compensate, confusing everything.

Sitting on his bed he opens his briefcase. Positive thoughts, he chides himself, trying to channel his therapist. The last few weeks _have_ been useful; the scrapbook he's pulling out is straining at the seams.

Sitting at his parent's kitchen table, going through his mother's huge collection of family photographs, he'd felt _normal_ for the first time in weeks. His father has never liked painting; the décor in their house hasn't changed much in the last decade.

Talking about her family is his mother's favorite pastime; she'd embraced the idea of the scrapbook with enthusiasm. The only problem had been limiting her to the last five years. She'd wanted to look through his baby pictures, graduation portrait and every other family occasion since he'd been born.

He blinks away the memory of his wedding albums, the way she'd carefully placed them back in the bottom drawer of the dresser. Instead he opens up the scrapbook and carefully flicks through the pages. Each picture is accompanied by a colored sticker, some written clumsily in his block handwriting. The rest are in an elegant script, his mother's attempt to fill in the bits of the story not explained in the pictures.

It's not a replacement for his lost memories. But it has helped him to make sense of things. Turning over another page, he grins ruefully to himself. House will never let him hear the last of it when he finds out how attached he's become to a child's scrapbook.

The faces that look up at him from the pictures are familiar, even if they have all aged a few years. The difference is more noticeable in his nieces and nephews. The young children with shy grins have been replaced by confident young-teens, too engrossed in their own lives to talk to him when he'd visited. He'd never felt that attached to his brother's family. But watching their obvious affection for each other had felt like salt being rubbed into a raw wound.

There's a picture of Julie, early on. His mother had added it to the scrapbook, her fingers briefly trailing over it after she'd written the short note below: 'James and Julie – 2nd wedding anniversary'.

It was taken in his parent's back yard. Julie's standing beside him, her arms wrapped around his waist. Smiling up at him, she's resting her head against his chest. For a second he can imagine being there, the warmth of her body curled around his. But this Julie doesn't look anything like the one he'd had dinner with - the body language is totally wrong.

There're other pictures of Julie in the scrapbook but it's the only one where they're standing together. The physical distance between them in the later shots is obvious. Still wallowing in guilt after meeting her at the restaurant, putting those pictures in the book had been his choice.

"I'm sorry," he'd told his mother, when she'd caught him looking at them.

His words had ended up muffled as she'd pulled him into a hug. "All I've ever wanted is for my children to be happy," she'd reminded him, pulling away to catch his gaze. "Greg makes you happy." He'd sighed and she'd hugged him again. "He does sweetheart, although some days I wonder how," she'd added with a weak smile.

The guilt's still there in the background, he doubts it will ever totally fade. Julie's built herself a new life, he reminds himself regularly. He used to have one too.

That thought takes him to the end of the scrapbook. Just before he'd flown back to Princeton he'd been going back through the pictures with his mother. The whole family features somewhere, except David of course. But there are no pictures of House. His mother had looked surprised when he'd suggested that getting House in front of a camera was like trying to get a kid to eat their vegetables. 'No it's not," his mother had insisted, pulling out the collection of photographs again. "I'm sure I've got some here."

"I must have sent them to you," she'd conceded eventually. Which means the photographs must be in the apartment somewhere, he suddenly realizes. 'Somewhere' isn't that big an area; there's only one room he hasn't spent much time in.

Rubbing his face tiredly, he gets to his feet. A quick glance at the couch as he passes tells him House is still asleep. Warily he heads for House's bedroom. 'Their bedroom' he corrects himself, hearing House's voice in his head. He still shivers involuntarily as he stands in the middle of the room. Everything around him is familiarly 'house-like'. But there are hints of him here too. In the rest of the apartment he's got used to it. In here though...

His first instinct is to walk back out again. Anchoring his hands on his hips he forces himself to breathe deeply. This is stupid, he tells himself angrily, swallowing down the wave of panic that is threatening to overwhelm him. This is what you wanted.

It still doesn't feel real though, even when he forces himself to start searching through the drawers and closet. Despite his nervousness, he can't suppress a smile as he opens the closet. One side is stuffed full of t-shirts and sports jackets that have seen better days. The other side has been neatly filled with shirts and suits.

A cream colored box on the top-shelf catches his eye instantly, his heart beating faster as he recognizes it. Lifting it out, he sits on the bed and carefully pulls out the contents.

Although he's never had the time to put together a photo album before, it hasn't stopped him collecting pictures. There's not many; he's always been selective. But in all the excitement he'd forgotten about them. House wouldn't have noticed; he's not a fan of high shelves.

Slowly he sifts through the pictures. Occasionally he pulls one out and lays it on top of the coverlet; in one he's standing with Laura and her parents the day they got engaged; another shows Bonnie sitting with one of his nephews, her grin wide despite the fact she's covered in finger paint. There's only one picture of Julie in the box and it's covered in creases; at some time it's been screwed up into a ball. It was taken on their wedding day. He's cupping her waist with his hands, the tight bodice of her dress emphasizing her slim waist. They're both grinning into the camera.

He can still remember how happy he'd felt that day.

Searching through the rest of the pictures he finds what he's looking for. It's a picture of him and House. They're sitting at his parent's dining table. Probably taken at Thanksgiving he decides, recognizing the decorations in the background. Their shoulders are tilting slightly towards each other but not close enough to touch. He's laughing at whoever is taking the picture, his head tilted back. House is looking at him sideways, the corners of his lips barely turned upwards in a familiar 'duh' expression. But it's House's eyes that catch his attention; they're bright blue and sparkling with laughter. It takes his breath away.

He arranges the pictures side by side. "I suck at relationships," he'd told his mother as he'd watched her put his wedding albums away. "Maybe I shouldn't do it again. Maybe…" As words failed him he'd shrugged his shoulders in defeat. "Or maybe you hadn't found the right person," she'd finished for him, nudging him encouragingly as he'd dipped his head.

He studies the picture of House again then droops back into the pillows behind him, his eyes squeezed shut. It's not that he doesn't believe his mother, or Julie or even House himself. But House, despite his hard exterior, is surprisingly easy to hurt when it comes to relationships. The failed kiss proved that. He's done much worse to each of his wives.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

He's not aware he's fallen asleep until a loud noise wakes him. Confused, he looks around wildly, his heart beating loud in his ears. It's dark, he realizes, then squints painfully as the light goes on in the hallway.

His brain kicks in, reminding him why he woke up. "House? Are you alright?" Reaching around in the darkness he switches the bedside lamp on. Blinded by the sudden brightness, he rubs his eyes.

"You okay?"

House is standing in the doorway, silhouetted against the light behind him. 'He's limping badly' is the first thing he thinks, as House takes a few steps into the bedroom. The genuine note of concern in his voice is the second thing that registers. "Um, yeah," he mutters, rubbing his eyes. "What time is it?"

"Late."

"Oh." Guiltily he pushes himself upright. He'd never meant to fall asleep. "Are you okay?"

"Got up to pee."

Narrowing his eyes, he gradually focuses. "Uh, okay," he replies hesitantly. House's brow is furrowed. Instead of heading for the bathroom he's taken two more steps into the bedroom.

_His_ bedroom. Damn. "I was…" Sleep is fogging his brain, making him stutter. "I was looking for pictures." He waves vaguely in the direction of the closet.

"I can see that."

House's words are short, terse. The hairs on his neck prickle and he rubs at them instinctively. "What's wrong-" he starts but House is already moving, his gait stiff and clumsy as he heads for the door.

_What the… _"House?" Running his hands through his hair, he tries to clear the fog of sleep from his brain. The pictures are lying on the bed; Julie and Bonnie smile back at him. His stomach knots as realization sinks in.

Shit.

The heavy, slow thud of the cane is already disappearing down the hallway. By the time he's scrabbled to his feet and caught up, House is almost to the bathroom. "Wait –"

Internally he flinches as House swings back to face him. Lips pursed in an angry thin line, his expression has hardened.

'They're just pictures' he's on the verge of saying. With the old House that would have been enough. Scathing remarks about Julie's meringue-like wedding dress would have followed. He would have defended her of course - guilt makes him feel protective of all his ex-wives - but eventually he'd give in and start laughing. Now he just feels exhausted. It's like walking through a minefield every time either of them opens their mouth.

Exhaling loudly, he studies the ceiling. "This is insane," he whispers, shaking his head.

House snorts, his eyes narrowed. "Insane? I'm not the one pinning for my ex-wife." Eyes flashing with anger he leans in close. "She left you, you moron –"

"I know." Swallowing against the lump in his throat, he tries again. "I know that."

"Do you?" Head tilted to one side, House's gaze flicks back towards the bedroom. "Doesn't look like it to me."

The words are acidic, even for House. He opens his mouth to argue, to explain the confusion in his head. But with a puff of scorn House is moving again. Frustration flares and blindly he reaches out. House is trembling he registers vaguely, as his fingers wrap around his forearm. "I can explain –"

They don't do talking; some things won't have changed. But House is studying him, assessing. His body posture still screams anger but his eyes give him away; a mixture of confusion and loneliness. Fear.

They're emotions he understands.

Chewing on his bottom lip, he tries to get his thoughts into some order. "I miss…I miss...having someone to talk to," he exhales slowly, "…someone who understands my lame jokes. I miss waking up in the morning with someone beside me. I miss…I just miss being…happy." Stuttering to halt he takes a gulp of air. He's blown it again. He's sure he has. House hates shows of emotion. A glance at House confirms his worst fears; the grip he has on his cane is white-knuckled, he's staring at his feet.

He's still got hold of his other arm though. His skin feels warm and rough under his hands. Tightening his grip, he tugs until House meets his gaze. His blue eyes are lidded and weary.

"I loved being _with_ someone. I didn't love _them."_

The words are out of his mouth before he's even realized he's thought them. He blinks, silently replaying the words. An impatient 'hmpf' noise brings him back to the present; House is pointedly looking down at his hand.

"Sorry." Embarrassed, he moves it. House has bloodless finger imprints along his arm.

Letting the doorframe take his weight, House rubs at them half-heartedly, his expression pre-occupied. "Julie always hated your lame jokes."

Frustration getting the better of him, he jerks his hands skywards. "I _know."_

An eyebrow is cocked in his direction. "But you just said –"

"I never said it made sense!" Running his fingers through his hair, he searches for the right words. But it's like grabbing hold of shadows. Everything keeps moving, screwing up what he thinks. "I know I don't love Julie." Impatiently he taps his head. "But up here everything's got…twisted. I know that I…that I'm in love with you… but this…" He waves at the apartment around them. "This…" He throws his arms in the air again as words fail him. Vaguely he's aware of House watching him but the frustration he's been holding back for weeks is spewing out like an erupting volcano. Striding back into the bedroom he grabs the picture of Julie. Throwing pillows around he retrieves the Thanksgiving picture from where it's got jammed. Marching back, he waves them in front of House, first left-hand then right. "I'm stuck in the middle somewhere…just stuck in limbo."

He stops, taking huge gulps of air. The only sound in the apartment is his heavy breathing.

"So go talk to Julie. She'd take you back."

House's words are whispered. He blinks in confusion as they gradually sink in. "Haven't you been listening to _anything_ I've said?"

"Do you even _know_ what you just said?" House's eyebrows are raised in question, his expression a combination of skepticism and barely hidden fear.

"No." Hysterical laughter is threatening. Sitting down on the floor, he lets it come. He hasn't got the energy for House's word games. "I want to stay. That's all I know." Closing his eyes for a few seconds he lets the laughter play itself out. When he opens them again House is standing in front of him. "You asked me to make a decision," he sighs tiredly, unable to meet his eyes.

He dips his head back down again as House quietly matches his sigh. The sound of the bathroom door opening and closing makes him flinch. Folding up his legs, he rests his elbows on his knees. Moving would probably be a good idea, before House reappears but his legs don't want to co-operate.

The tip of a cane comes into his vision, nudging at the end of his shoe. Ignoring House isn't really an option; at some point he'll just lose his toe. Raising his head, he feels his stomach clench painfully in dread.

This new House _is _much more transparent he realizes, his breath catching as he meets his gaze. There's a hint of wariness there. But there's a hint of…expectation too.

House offers him his hand, gesturing impatiently when he hesitates. He shouldn't take it; House is in no shape to help him up. But he needs the contact and House's grip is warm and tight. They're standing face to face when the grip shifts; fingertips are stroking the sensitive skin in the palm of his hand. He can feel his jaw dropping, his mouth forming a perfect 'O'.

It's only a second then the contact is gone. Suddenly cold he shivers, but the emotion in House's eyes makes his cheeks burn. Then House blinks and the blue eyes staring at him are back to silently mocking the world around them. To his surprise the sudden switch doesn't bother him. Instead it feels likes an achingly familiar trait.

He swallows hard as his brain processes the new sensation.

"You planning on staying there all night?"

"What?" He looks up, surprised. Standing at the end of the hallway, House is frowning, leaning heavily on his cane. He looks from House to the bathroom; he hadn't seen him move. His brain is swirling, the tingling in his hand is gradually working its way down his spine.

House raises his eyebrows and nods towards the kitchen. "Dinner?"

He blinks, deep breathes, giving his brain a few seconds to catch up. There's a shift in the air, he can feel it. 'Go for lighthearted' his inner voice tells him. And whatever you do, don't blow it now.

"That's _it?_" he shoots back, hoping his face is showing mock-indignation. "I pour my heart out and all I get is 'what's for dinner'?"

"Yup," House counters, his head cocked to one side. "So, what's for dinner?"

Unable to stop himself he lets out a chuckle. "Wow. _Now_ I understand why I'm so attracted to you."

"My witty banter?"

"Your romantic streak."

It's House's turn to go for mock-indignation as he slumps on the couch. "Didn't your Mom ever tell your wives that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach?"

"Frequently. But you actually have to be at home to eat the food."

With an impatient puff of air, House flicks channels. Smiling to himself he takes the hint. It's not until he reaches the kitchen that realization sets in. Clenching his hands into fists he wills them to stop shaking. This won't be like his marriages. He'll only get one chance.

"It works you know."

House is standing in the doorway, leaning on the doorjamb. He still looks nervous, despite the shadow of a smile he's wearing. It hits him then, the hell that House has been through. He's scared about what will happen if he screws up and loses House, but that loss is a reality that House has been living with since his accident.

"What works?" he asks, injecting confidence in his voice, willing House to understand.

"The food thing…"

"Really?" Suddenly House's eyes are smiling, challenging, and he gratefully takes the bait. Hands on hips, he lets out a long-suffering sigh. "Don't tell me, you've got medical evidence."

"Yeah. You." House looks smug as he swings away from the doorjamb and heads back for the couch. "You've been letting me steal your lunch for years…"

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

"Dr Cuddy? Dr House called. He said to remind you that dinner is at seven tonight."

Gathering up the paperwork on her desk, she gives Annie a nod. That leaves her an hour to get ready; not enough time she thinks vaguely. On the other hand, House is bound to comment, no matter how she's dressed.

Annie is still standing in the doorway, her expression confused. "He seemed…cheerful."

She looks up, frowning at the disbelief in her assistant's tone. House and cheerful aren't two words that she'd normally use in the same sentence either. She's been busy; it's the end of the fiscal year. In all the excitement she hadn't realized that House has been absent from her office for at least a few days.

She leans forward on her desk, twirling her pen thoughtfully. "Did he sound cheerful because he's actually cheerful or cheerful because he wants something?"

It's a testament to the number of years that Annie's been working for her that her assistant actually understands the question. "Cheerful because he's actually cheerful," she replies after a beat.

"Oh."

"Does that mean Dr Wilson is coming back?"

"Possibly." She tips her head on one side, questioning. "You're not supposed to know about that."

Annie smiles at her, shaking her head. "Nothing is a secret around here."

She shakes her head in reply, wishing Annie goodnight as she closes the door. She's not sure what to be more worried about; the fact that House is cheerful or that the staff think Wilson is coming back. They've been discussing it in board meetings, about exactly what his position will be. She'd been hoping to manage it gradually, to give him time to find his feet.

With a sigh she packs up the rest of her files and shuts down her office for the night. Wilson won't be able to come back as Head of Oncology, he's already told her that. He's still playing catch-up but she knows it won't be for long. He might be missing some of the medical knowledge he needs but his fierce intelligence is still intact. It's why they're meeting up for dinner, so that they can discuss his options over the next few months.

As she heads for the parking lot she consoles herself with Annie's diagnosis of House's cheerful mood. It's been nearly a month since the incident in the clinic, a month since Wilson returned. House has been busy with patients for most of that time. There've been complaints – there always are – but a quick mental count tells her that he's been surprisingly quiet.

That knowledge doesn't help settle her nerves though as she stands outside House and Wilson's apartment that night. She's been trying to keep her distance. She's not quite sure what to expect.

Wilson solves that problem when he answers the door; he's wearing a luridly patterned apron and his hands are covered in flour. She grins as he struggles not to leave floury fingerprints everywhere. She grins even more when he catches her admiring his apron.

"House's idea of fun," he grumbles, taking the bottle of wine she's brought, and leading her through to the living room. She already knows where House is; the sound of piano music fills the apartment.

As Wilson disappears into the kitchen, she pauses at the entrance of the living room. House's head is down, his attention on the piano keys. She watches him for a while. It never ceases to amaze her how relaxed his body language is when he's sitting behind a piano. Eventually his head comes and up and he grins at her, his eyebrows waggling madly. She scowls back with mock-severity; she's wearing a low-cut black blouse just for him.

"Here you go."

Wilson's reappeared with a glass of wine and she takes it, wiping away the white fingerprints he's left behind. Dinner won't be long, he tells her. Taking the hint she sits on the couch.

Arranging her skirt so that House doesn't have another excuse to grin lewdly, she takes a sip of her wine and forces herself to relax. It's not difficult, she discovers quickly. The mood is mellow. Relaxed. Just like old times.

The thought comes out at her from left field and she pauses, mid-sip. House has turned his attention back to the music. The aroma of chicken and spices are wafting from the kitchen. Surreptitiously she checks out the living room.

Don't look, she reminds herself half-heartedly. It's none of your business.

A picture on the shelf catches her eye and all her best intentions go out of the window. Getting up she retrieves it from behind the books where it's been half-hidden. House and Wilson smile up at her from the picture. Instinctively she smiles back. Probably taken at Thanksgiving, she decides, looking at the decorations on the wall behind them. It's not one she's seen before. She's sure she would have remembered it; whoever took the picture has captured both men perfectly.

She opens her mouth to ask House about it then realizes he's already watching her, his fingers still sliding over the keys. His eyes are dancing with mischief as he glances towards the kitchen, then raises a finger to his lips.

For a second she thinks she's imagined it; the music hasn't skipped a beat. Then he raises his eyebrows at her, before turning his attention back to the keys.

"Dinner's ready."

Wilson's heading out of the kitchen. Without thinking she puts the picture back where she found it – its 'hiding place' her brain supplies helpfully – and makes a dash back to the couch. A quick glance at House tells her he's seen everything; his eyes are laughing even though his expression is straight. Mentally she reminds herself to assign him more clinic hours, preferably the next time there's a flu epidemic in Princeton.

She's sure she's blushing; Wilson's nervous glance in her direction confirms it. House earns himself a longer look though. They're sending out conflicting body language. She tells herself not to worry about it. As they sit down at the dining table she ends up doing just that.

Her feeling of unease continues through dinner. The food is delicious. House is in sparkling form. Wilson reacts to House's humor in the same way he always has. She can't help feeling he's slightly 'off' though.

They talk about work and Wilson's schedule. It's just details they're confirming. But she can see Wilson fiddling with his napkin. House is watching him from under his brow.

It's not until dinner's finished and the dirty plates are being cleared up that she gets to talk to Wilson alone. House has disappeared into a bedroom. Wilson's fiddling with the dishwasher, his back to her, so she waits for him to turn around.

"Dinner was lovely," she starts, cursing the lameness of her opening question. But he looks like a startled rabbit. She can't bring herself to cut straight to the chase.

"Thanks."

It's perfunctory, that one word. Mentally taking a breath she tries again. "So…how are you doing?"

"Me?" His eyes are wide open; he's working hard to look surprised. "I'm fine. Why?"

"I just wondered." Casually she takes a step closer, blocking his only route of escape. "You know, if you don't want to come back yet there's no rush, we –"

"No." Now she's sure he's wearing a genuine look of surprise. "I want to go back. It's just…" he waves his hands in the air vaguely, "it's going to be weird for a while."

She nods, relieved. "As long as you're sure."

"I'm sure," he shoots back instantly, with an intensity that makes her smile. It's the voice he usually uses as Head of Oncology, when he's going toe to toe with other members of the board.

She's about to ask another question when they're interrupted by House limping into the kitchen, a dirty glass in his free hand. She steps back to give him room to maneuver, Wilson steps forward to take the glass. House carries on regardless, heading for the dishwasher. At the last second he tips slightly to the left, his arm brushing Wilson's hip.

Taking a sudden interest in her fingernail polish, she waits for House to limp back out. When she looks up again, Wilson is stabbing at the buttons on the dishwasher. The tips of his ears are blushing bright red.

She should take pity on him, she knows she should. He's obviously the victim of one of House's 'games'. She can't help herself though, she's dying to know. "So…how's it going?" He raises one eyebrow so she nods in the direction that House has just disappeared.

He thinks about it for a moment then inhales deeply. "We're not...you know… " he starts nervously, waggling his hand from side to side. "We're…taking it slowly." Now it's not just his ears that are blushing furiously. With difficulty she stifles a smile.

A sound outside interrupts him. His nervous expression turns into a scowl. Hands on hips, he yells in the direction of the doorway. "House!"

On cue, House's head appears around the corner. He looks just like a naughty school boy, she thinks.

"It's _rude_ to listen into other people's conversations."

"So?" House retorts, unrepentant.

Wilson watches him go, his lips twitching up in a smile. A moment later he turns his attention back to her, his brown eyes thoughtful. "I know I'm going to regret asking this," he says slowly, "but was he like this…before?"

"Most of the time," she replies, grinning. There's so much he doesn't know yet.

"Oh god."

"Welcome to my world, Dr Wilson." Laughing she stands on tiptoe, giving him a quick peck on the cheek. "I'm glad things are starting to come together."

"Don't get excited just yet," he warns her, enveloping her in a hug. "There's still a lot that could go wrong."

He sounds nervous again. It makes his heart clench. Pulling away, she grabs his hands. "No it won't," she insists, catching and holding his gaze. Not for the first time she wishes she could explain to him what his life was like before his accident. She knows she can't though; he has to figure it out for himself.

Letting go of his hands she pulls away. It's late and she should be going home. With one last 'thank you' to Wilson, she heads for the living room.

House is stretched out on the sofa, his attention on the TV. He's flicking peanuts in the air and catching them in his mouth. 'Trying to' she corrects, as one rolls under the couch.

"Slob," Wilson mutters softly, following close behind.

He's smiling though, as she looks back over her shoulder. House carries on regardless, making a big show of catching two at once in his mouth. For a second she falters. The scene is so natural, so _House-like_, that she wants to walk over and hug him. She settles instead for stealing a peanut. Her breath hitches as he catches her mid-snatch, trapping her hand in the wrapper. The smile he flashes her is fleeting and wonky. She accepts the silent 'thank you' willingly before slapping his hand away.

As the door to the apartment closes behind her, she allows herself a big smile. There's still tension between the two men but that's normal, they used to have periods like that before. They've rediscovered their 'rhythm' - and it appears that's not the only thing. The memory of Wilson's nervous hand waggling makes her giggle as she gets into her car.

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

It's late and he's tired but he takes his time getting ready for bed. Brushing his teeth he studies his face in the bathroom mirror. The dark rings around his eyes are starting to fade. Maybe Cuddy's right. It _is_ time he went back to work; he's finally looking better that the majority of his patients.

Seeing patients again fills him equally with excitement and trepidation. Without his job he'll never be able to move on. Failure is a real possibility though. No it's not, his inner voice mocks loudly. House would never let that happen. The growing stack of oncology journals in the living room, 'borrowed' from the hospital, are testament to that.

He holds that thought close as he heads for the bedroom. The simple everyday events that used to send his mind reeling are becoming rarer and further apart. One day – hopefully – he'll make it through a whole day without that happening. In the meantime he's learning to deal.

Stripping off his t-shirt and boxers, he takes a deep breath and tells himself to relax. At least he no longer wakes up in the morning confused about where he is. The bed he's getting into now is familiar; dark bed linen, masculine, with a scent of soap and musk.

"You lied to Cuddy."

Shuffling backwards across the bed, he allows a pair of arms to encircle him. He's pulled in tight, the warmth of skin against skin enveloping him from the tip of his spine to his toes. "No I didn't," he breathes softly, shivering as House's lips touch his ear.

"Liar."

There's a hint of nervousness behind House's taunt. He rolls over sideways, making eye contact in the weak half-light. Reaching out he wraps his arms around House's waist, returning his bear-like grip. He only holds it for a brief second, trying to convey everything he's feeling, but he can already tell House is starting to relax. In public the other man hates being touched. In private things are much more different, although it's still on House's terms.

"It's only been a few days," he mumbles, when House sighs loudly in his ear. The puff of warm air causes a shiver that shoots straight down his spine. He curls his fingers in reaction, sucking in a breath as the blood rushes to his balls.

"A week," House shoots back, leaning down to nip at his shoulder blade.

Clamping his lips tight he tries not to groan in reaction. The nip's only light, barely ghosting; it's anticipation that's making him squirm. They've only done this a few times but already he's addicted. House of course already has an advantage; he's a year ahead in this relationship. He's always prided himself on being a quick learner though; the powers of persuasion he's developed over the years are equally useful in bed.

"Three days," he insists, twisting away before House can nip him again. "That's not even close to a week."

"Five days." House rolls over on his back, tucking one hand behind his head. The move is languid. Powerful. He feels his penis twitch in response.

"I thought I was the one with brain damage. Five days is not a week."

"Ha. So it's not three days."

"It's three days." He knows what House is getting at but he's not counting the clumsy make-out session they'd had on the couch five days ago. Too nervous to enjoy it, he'd headed for the bathroom as soon as he'd got a chance.

"Liar, liar, pants on fire…"

"House." The admonishment comes out as an embarrassing squeak. House is tweaking his nipple between his forefinger and thumb.

"Wilson." House repeats his name, mocking. Lips turned up in a faint smile, in the half-light he can see that his blue eyes are sparkling with laughter. It's like an aphrodisiac and instinctively he licks his lips.

A strong hand cups his neck, pulling him in for an open mouthed kiss. They bump noses then readjust. House's fingers start kneading a particularly sensitive spot on the back on his neck. Curving his spine he groans appreciatively. This is perfect, he thinks, as he reaches out to stroke House's hip. Warmth and touch and the smell of sex. He's loved this man for as long as he can remember. The reality's not romantic. He'd never thought it would be. But it's never boring.

And the sex is great.

Suddenly the kneading stops. This time when he groans it's from frustration. Blinking, he focuses. Hovering just inches in front of his face, House is frowning. "What?"

"You're thinking." It's an accusation, not a question.

"No I'm not." He swallows guiltily. House, as always, is full of contradictions. He'd wanted him to think, to make a decision for himself. Now it's made, he's worried he'll think himself back out of it again. He understands, empathizes, but it's something he can't help; sometimes his brain still runs off in weird directions and there's nothing he can do to make it stop. Leaning forward, he reassures House the only way he knows how.

When he comes back up for air a few minutes later, House's pupils are dilated, his lips swollen and red. No more thinking, he agrees silently, as House's body responds to his touch.

He's made his decision and he's keeping to it. He knows it's the right one.

FINISH


End file.
